


ebost issala (we just keep living)

by sesquipedalianMarquis



Series: The Meraad Chronicles [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Tabletop RPG), Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: (those two are not related), Angst, Antaam - Freeform, Assassins, Attempted Murder, Casual Sex, Desertion, Dubious Morality, Heavy Angst, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Minor Violence, Murder, POV Third Person, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Relationships, Running Away, Tal-Vashoth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-15 06:39:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18068474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sesquipedalianMarquis/pseuds/sesquipedalianMarquis
Summary: Taam-kas leaves the Qun behind, leaves his soul and his name with it. So Meraad has to deal with the consequences of his actions, a soul, a weapon and a horn down. Luckily, he doesn't have to deal with it entirely on his own. There's always hedonistic Tal-Vashoth, here to help for entirely unselfish reasons.Our souls are dust and love's the same. One of my favourite works I've written for this campaign.





	ebost issala (we just keep living)

“We’ll go to Karanaan in the morning. I’ll be with you. He’ll get you on the next ship back. Maybe you could train new taam-kasari, back home. You’ll finally be warm again. It’ll be good for you.”

“Yes,” he says. “You’re right.”

Reth runs a hand over his, all gentle.

“I’m proud of you, Taam-kas. We’ll fix this, you and I. You’ll be okay.”

He’s buying it. He’s believing it. Of course he’s believing it, why would he lie to the one man he trusts most? Taam-kas turns his hand into Reth’s, squeezes once.

“Will you hold me before I go?” It’s a comfort he doesn’t deserve, but it’s a comfort he craves. He might as well be selfish.

The smile Reth gives him is soft as a feather-bed, warm as home. He protects. Taam-kas does not deserve it. Not the shelter of his shield, not the comfort of his embrace.

“Of course I will. As long as you need.”

Forever. Taam-kas can’t imagine not needing him. But he couldn’t have forever even if he stayed. All he gets is the stolen time in the small hours of the night, his head on Reth’s shoulder. It takes him too long to go, to pull away and retreat to his cold, empty room. Winter is not yet here, but the chill is in the air, creeps down his bones and up his chest, lodges in his heart until he’s numb. His hands feel mechanic as he packs clothes, flint, a candle. Not the axe. It rests against his nightstand like an accusation. A soul left, a life forfeit. It’ll make Taarbas’ life easier. The door to his room closes with a soft click. The office, then; money from the locked drawer. He leaves the key on the desk. Food from the larder. What a way to go, taking from what’s everyone’s for himself. He sneaks like a thief, light on his feet as he can possibly be. Every noise makes him flinch. And then out while the guards are changing. The side gate clicks shut behind him. Such a simple sound, but it takes his breath away when the metal snaps into place. Done. Gone.

He makes his way into the morning with his breath in wispy clouds. The dawn is faint to the east, a shimmer of a coming day. He goes west.

 

 

A week’s forced march later, he gives in, uses a few coppers to rent a room in an inn so he can rest in a bed. It’s just for one night, he tells himself, it can’t be that much harm. Shok, he told the innkeeper his name was, because he’s without his axe, he’s struggle, he’s lost and soulless, fleeing and grey. But a fake name only helps so much when you’re a Qunari — a Tal-Vashoth in Ferelden.

The warriors chasing him find him a day later, on the road, as he’s settling down for sleep. With no weapons, no armour, all he can do is grab his things, abandon his bedroll and run. One of them gets close enough to swing, close enough to connect, and this Ashaad always keeps his blades sharp enough to sever floating silk. It’s only sheer fucking luck that he can duck the blow. The shortsword lodges in his horn, three-quarters through. It rattles his skull, all the way down his spine, but it’s just horn, so he shoves Ashaad down, yanks the sword away and runs, and runs, and runs.

 

 

He prays, on the way. Walking in silence alone gives his mind too much time to wander, to reflect, so he recites the prayers of the dead for Taam-kas, for the soul he left behind. And a month away from the compound, he finds a mercenary company willing to take him on, since his money’s running out. A nameless, soulless Tal-Vashoth, suffering the last indignity he can before he has nothing left.

“Sure, we can use extra muscle on this one,” says the captain, who doesn’t give a fuck for anything but his ability to swing a sword, “we’ll take you on. What are you called?”

Weeks of the same words rolling off his tongue until he wakes up with them already on his lips. The rising tide carried him to Amaranthine. The falling tide is dragging him out, off into the ocean, away from the familiar land.

“Meraad,” he says. “My name is Meraad.”

 

 

The Qun’s assassins trail him for longer and more skilfully than he thought. To his shame, it’s not he who notices them, too absorbed in living as one of the bas. He’s lived _around_ them for the better part of a decade, but he’s always gone back to the compound, to be surrounded by the sound of Qunlat and the company of men he can look in the eye without stooping. Among, but not one, like a snake in the sands, only now all he has is sand. Even himself. Crumbled. One of them.

So he’s busy figuring out how to comport himself in the mercenary crew, lucky that most of them expect a silent and stoic man anyways, ashamed at the mediocre blade in his hand. He is lots of things, but not observant enough.

 

“Shanedan, Meraad. Walk with me a bit.”

Kasaanda doesn’t ask. He requests and expects Meraad to follow. It’s equal parts irritating and soothing; he bristles to take orders from a Tal-Vashoth, but at the same time, following without question is a relief. So Meraad puts down his book and follows. It’s not so bad, following him in particular — Kasaanda usually wears breeches that cling to his ass like they’re painted on. He’s in his leathers, though, and his soft hair is pinned tight to his head. Meraad’s eyes catch on a fading bruise on his neck when he motions for Meraad to catch up.

“Come on, I said walk with me, not let me lead you around like you’re an elf in Tevinter. You have your sword, yes? Good. Don’t brawl, use the length of that blade.”

“Will you say what’s going on?” Meraad catches up, walks beside him.

“Not here. I’ll watch your back. Move around a lot, I don’t think there’ll be archers but better safe than sorry.”

“You’re really letting me run into this with clothing stuck in my horns?”

“You have your sword, do you not?”

Meraad sighs and hauls the sword off his back.

“See? You’re adequately prepared.”

So Meraad gives up getting answers out of the guy. For all that Kasaanda loves to hear himself talk as much as the day is long, he can be remarkably obstinate in his secrecy. They wander, way out of town, ditching the road in favour of a track into the forest. When they reach a clearing near the river, Kasaanda stops and draws his knives, the small ones for throwing. His entire air changes; he shrugs off the carefree act like a mantle. All that tension ready to pounce. Meraad readies his blade and stands at an angle, watches Kasaanda’s back; they haven’t fought together much, but both of them have trained under the best the Qun has to offer. They know their roles.

 

“So, what are we fighting?” Meraad asks sotto voce. He knows in his heart, but leaving things unspoken didn’t do him any favours before.

“Your past.” Kasaanda raises his voice, switches to Qunlat. “Come out! You won’t get a shot like this again. Two traitors for one. If we go back, we’ll be surrounded by mercenaries again. Take your chance.”

 

For a second, it seems like nothing will happen. But after a few heartbeats, two Qunari reveal themselves from behind a thicket and another approaches from Kasaanda’s side. They’re not even trained assassins — they’re warriors from his compound, the people Taam-kas was responsible for, his kith. Dispatched to take him out. The dread has time to sink all the way to his stomach in a heartbeat when Kasaanda strikes like a cobra. One of them cries out in pain when one of the throwing knife hits him in the face.

Meraad wrenches himself out of the shock and charges. The soldier, Ashaad, the tallest of his Ashaad, the one who must have been doing the tracking — the other two are useless at it — doesn’t manage to dodge the blow. He takes it on his shield and the force throws him back. Meraad kicks him down and sees the fear in his eyes. The panicked shout rings in his ears. His blade crunches into Ashaad’s chest. True grey. He feels sick. The other soldier, a Sata-kasari, Sata-shok, charges him while his defence is down. Meraad knows how dangerous he is with that maul, has watched him train months and months. So he knows Sata-shok’s footwork is his weakness. It takes him seconds to unbalance him, shove him over and go for the throat. The soldier gets the handle of his maul between Meraad’s sword and his neck, snarls up at him with disgust etched into his face.

“Ebost issala. Tal-Vashoth.”

Something cold claws its way into Meraad’s chest. He kicks Sata-shok in the dick and cracks his skull when he curls up in pain, watches him twitch his last.

 

“Idiots. They should have sent archers. So, how are you feeling?”

Meraad turns, sees Kasaanda crouched over the dead body of the third guy. Another Sata-kasari, this one fresh off the boat. All three of them might have stood a chance against him alone. Kasaanda wipes his hands on the Sata-kasari’s sleeve. The man’s throat is a red, red gape.

“It’s different when they were on your side, isn’t it,” Kasaanda prompts. Meraad looks back down at Sata-shok.

“I was his Sten. Eight years long. When the children threw snow at him, he threw it back, and now I had to kill him.” The blood on his sword will stick, no matter if he keeps the blade. The same way the blood of the karataam stuck to his axe, even though the axe had no part in it. Leaving the axe, the soul, the name behind didn’t wash away the stains of guilt. He lets the sword fall from his hand. The bloodied blade lands across Ashaad’s legs.

Kasaanda rises from his crouch, approaches. His movement reminds Meraad of the jungles of the North, of the spotted cats that melt into the shadows. There’s blood on his hands.

“We have to cut ties to be free. Did you think they would just let you go?”

“No, of course not. No one leaves just like that.” It would be a lie to say he hadn’t been expecting it, either. But Meraad had pushed the thought from his mind, shoved it into a neat little compartment and ignored it, too busy just existing in the bizarre world outside the Qun.

“Exactly. Well, you’re lucky you had me. You didn’t notice these guys at all.” Kasaanda’s in front of him now, looking at him with those honey eyes.

“I was… ignoring it, mostly. The thought. I didn’t want my men to track me, to hunt me and put me down like an animal.”

“Of course they’ve tracked you. You’re not really safe until you’re a year out and two countries away from where you were last seen.” Kasaanda flicks a finger against Meraad’s horn. “You’re new to this, so I get it, but do make an effort to keep up.”

“I will,” says Meraad.

“At least you’ve already changed your name. Keep doing that in the area. Switch it up. Even if you’re keeping Meraad, get inns as, I dunno, Shok. There’s Shoks and Shokras by the dozen. Maraas, Ataash, whatever. Until you’re reasonably sure you won’t get stabbed.”

“Do they ever give up?”

“Oh, absolutely. Everyone from Tama to the Arishok would have you believe no-one gets out and lives. But I’ve been free for the better part of a decade. Long as you were a Sten. Travelling all the way to the Anderfels border helped. Hunting down one lone man who wasn’t important is a waste of manpower, after all.” Something amused glints in Kasaanda’s eyes. “Unless you were really important. The Ariqun’s personal scribe? The Arishok’s confidante? An Ashkaari about to make Gaatlok twice as explosive for half the ingredients? They’ll hunt you down. But you — I think you’ll be just fine given a little time and a lot of miles.”

“Are you being encouraging or condescending here?”

Kasaanda laughs and flutters his hand daintily. The panache of a performer, for some reason residing in a Tal-Vashoth mercenary. There’s still blood on his hand.

“My good man, why can’t I be both?”

Meraad shrugs. A silence steals between them like a barefoot Dalish elf, until he speaks up, reluctant to let the conversation end.

“Anyways. Thanks for the help with that. You’re handy with a knife. I suppose I owe you a favour.”

“I could do you another, with my wealth of experience concerning being hunted by assassins.”

Meraad gives him a look. “What’s that?”

“Look, I know being hunted by trained killers is upsetting.” Kasaanda has his caring face on. He pats Meraad’s shoulder in sympathy. “It’s not nice to know people want you dead and it’s not nice to have to kill them back. And then you’re sat there with corpses at your feet and adrenaline in your blood and it’s just a shit situation all around.”

“Where are you going with this, Kasaanda?”

“When you survive an assassination attempt, you absolutely should get laid. Celebrate you’re still alive. Burn off the fight.” He leans in closer, runs the back of his nails along Meraad’s cheek. “You won’t think of their knives and their words while you’re fucking me into the mattress. Get out of your head. Forget for a while.” His lips are scant inches from Meraad’s. “Indulge me again.”

What’s Meraad to do but to lean in and kiss him, blind and desperate, his one foothold in this foreign world? His soul is dust, but his body’s still there, and all he wants to do is feel until he can’t think anymore.

 

 

Kasaanda picks up the fang, runs his hand over the metal edges, twists his fingers in the string.

“You left someone behind that you don’t want to forget yet.”

Meraad looks up, still adrift, barely awake. His throat still aches and when he speaks his voice is delectably hoarse.

“Yes.”

“Who was it?”

“He was a fellow soldier. Someone I… thought of with great respect.”

Kasaanda turns the fang over in his hand. The metal is almost polished on one side, worn smooth on the skin of Meraad’s chest.

“How long?”

“All eight years, give or take.”

“You love him, then. As the bas would.”

“I don’t know how bas love.”

Kasaanda sets it down on the nightstand again, drags his fingers over the stubble on Meraad’s jaw instead, traces the curve of his lip.

“Maybe you’ll find out. You’re proper one of us now, and the world’s big. But let me tell you one thing: I think at some point you’ll look at yourself and at that fang and realise you loved like bas do the entire time. No matter what they told you. No matter if you didn’t fuck. Love’s the same.”

Meraad just lets the words sink into him. He’s only barely coming down from his nice and floaty state. And he’d like to stay that way, but he can’t help drifting back into his body, especially when Kasaanda’s talking to him. He kind of wants to ask what this means for him, but words are hard and speaking them makes everything too real. And, as he tends to do, Kasaanda reads the question off his eyes.

“Me? Ah, wouldn’t you like me to unpack my love stories. Not happening. Don’t worry, though. You’ll find that the bas are lovable and love back, as soon as you stop thinking of them as qalaba and they don’t think you’ll try and conquer their country. Or hurt them. Well, in the ways that aren’t fun.”

“You’re frustrating to talk to,” Meraad mutters, turns his face into Kasaanda’s chest.

“Mmh, am I?” Kasaanda’s right hand has his claws long and wicked, not trimmed kitten-soft like his left, and he drags them along Meraad’s neck and the base of his skull in steady, soothing motions. It makes Meraad want to purr like a sated dragon.

“Yeah. You look at me and say whatever’s on my mind, but you share nothing of your own.”

“Andraste’s knickers, aren’t you being open and honest. Fucking makes you chatty, huh?”

Meraad just grunts in response and leans into his hand a bit more. Kasaanda obligingly drags his fingers over Meraad’s scalp more firmly. He sighs happily, then tenses a bit, blinks up at him. Kasaanda sees him look from the corner of his eyes.

“You were Ben-Hassrath, weren’t you?”

For a second, Kasaanda’s hand stills. He turns his head so he can meet Meraad’s gaze.

“I was.”

Something passes between them unspoken. The moment breaks when Meraad turns his head into Kasaanda’s chest again, lets his eyes slide half closed; Kasaanda resumes scratching him into a content boneless puddle of fucked-out qunari.

“And here we are,” Meraad mumbles, words against Kasaanda’s skin. “Our souls are dust.”

“And we’re still here. Soul or none, we just keep living.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it!


End file.
